


Lose Yourself

by PurpleFluffyCat



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: D/s dynamic, M/M, Sounding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2018-01-12 04:04:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1181660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PurpleFluffyCat/pseuds/PurpleFluffyCat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1939: <i>He keeps it in the corner of his room, covered by a heavy dust sheet and blocked-in by piles of parchment and books, to lessen the temptation. Many a man has gone mad gazing into the Mirror of Erised, after all - and Albus Dumbledore is too wise, too talented, and too downright important to let that happen to him...</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Lose Yourself

**Author's Note:**

> In _The Philosopher's Stone_ Dumbledore tells Harry that men have wasted away gazing into the Mirror of Erised. Perhaps he speaks from close experience?
> 
> This was written for daily_deviant with the prompts 'mirrors' and 'sounding'.

He keeps it in the corner of his room, covered by a heavy dust sheet and blocked-in by piles of parchment and books, to lessen the temptation. Many a man has gone mad gazing into the Mirror of Erised, after all - and Albus Dumbledore is too wise, too talented, and too downright important to let that happen to him.  
  
At least, so he tells himself. - And in the broad, lit, waking hours full of bustle and debate, research and acclaim, it is easy to believe that might be the case. He has just returned from a conference in Alexandria, and the seventh use for dragon's blood is coming along nicely. His correspondence list grows by the day in size and fame, as do the languages he speaks and the invitations he fields. For Albus, life is full and exciting, and there is no need for mooning over heartbreak and lost dreams.  
  
There are other times, however, when the candle gutters and the runic texts before him are devoid of human warmth; when life stretches out before him as a big, black void with no equal at his side. His hand twitches, yearning to hold another's; his skin pricks with solitude, and Albus thinks his soul might just dry to a crisp and be found pressed between the papers of a library tome.  
  
It is forty years since he last saw Gellert. They parted without farewell on that terrible night, and Albus has been studiously avoiding news of what his lover might have done since - although, when he is off-guard, whisperings from Bavaria sound grim. It is difficult, though - neigh, impossible - for Albus to think of that angelic face with anything but fondness; to imagine that dazzling intellect as anything but the other half of his team; the other half of him _self_. There are times when he is weak, and lonely and exhausted, when he wants nothing more than to close his eyes and be there again: eighteen, in Godric's Hollow, in Gellert's arms.  
  
It is then that the temptation becomes too much. Albus rises from his chair behind the desk and levitates away the books and the cover. Before him, the mirror gleams - winking, inviting, cajoling. _Look in me. Give yourself. Lose yourself,_ it whispers, and his knees quake slightly in anticipation, heat curling in his belly and cock growing hard.  
  
His eyelids flutter as he levels his gaze, pupils widening, lenses focussing into the gloomy depths. Slowly, an image forms, and his heart climbs his throat at the sight: Gellert, just as perfect as life, and his own younger self. They are sitting together, outside in the warm sunshine, lolling under the big apple tree. Surrounding them are frenzied scribblings on scrolls and scraps, and more marginalia than could fit into a whole library of books. The writing is incisive; brilliant; bound to change the world.  
  
However, none of that seems to matter right then to the two figures lounging - they are far more focussed upon one another. Long, red hair trails in Gellert's lap as his strokes Albus' brow, and Albus nuzzles into the touch, gazing upward at blissfully blue eyes and golden curls.  
  
They begin to kiss - long and languid at first, but with increasing intensity - and the watching Albus moistens his lips with his tongue, imagining Gellert's touch, his blood heating by the second. The kisses become searing and hands bunch desperately in fabric - and then the figures disrobe one another with little care for creases or buttons. Their mouths do not part, and Albus finds himself caught without breath as he watches, drowning in the phantom of passions past.  
  
Naked, Gellert is breathtaking; his skin is luminous gold, and every angle, curve and line spells beauty: slim hips, haughty shoulders, mouth a Cupid's bow. With lover’s eyes, Albus knows no exaggeration in the image he beholds, and he feels both excited at the perfection he witnesses, and queasy at all that he has lost. His own ivory skin lies in contrast as their bodies are pressed flush together, but with a form that is equally svelte and comely. In the back of his mind, Albus knows that his picture is an idealized one: he was much scrawnier than that in youth, with knock-knees and skinny ribs - and now, two decades of sherbet lemons have seen that his belly is not nearly so flat.   
  
It seems to matter little, though; dream-Gellert scores his fingers across the taut young muscles of Albus' torso, and the older man shivers as he watches, disbelief suspended, mind numbed with cloudy depths and suspended hope.   
  
Suddenly, his own robes are too heavy and too hot, and Albus shrugs out of the thick velvet without breaking his gaze from the mirror. He plays his hands in the path that he sees before him: across hardening nipples, down a stomach that twitches with ragged breaths. In that hypnotic haze, there is no abashment about it; the world has narrowed to nothing but what he can see and where he can touch. The immersion is wondrous balm to a harried brain, and his loins ache desperately, released from their neglect.  
  
The figures in the mirror are lying down now: Albus spread upon the ground and Gellert atop, just as those treasured times past. They are kissing still, but proceedings have taken a slightly different turn, Gellert breaking away every so often to smile and observe, his nails a little sharper, his expression a little more calculating. Watching, Albus feels a thrill of excitement at that glint: how very wonderful to have found someone as intelligent as himself.  
  
There is more, though. If an equal would be wonderful, how about...  
  
His heart lurches even as the sentence dies. When waking he can barely – indeed, will not – put that tug into thoughts, let alone words . But now, freed from his own strictures and in deepest desire, Albus’ heart sings out to the mirror:  
  
 _...to be taken, to be dominated, to be cared for, to trust so very completely..._  
  
With placid force, the mirror hears. Gellert conjures a thin rod and uses it to dance about the head of Albus' straining cock, cool glass a shock against hot skin and concentric circles narrowing toward the slit. The man who watches cannot help but to touch himself, hands firm and solid, imagining the extraordinary feeling when... Gellert slides the rod inside. In the mirror, Albus' face opens in a shock of pain and bliss, given over completely to his lover in devotion. Gellert smiles and sets to task, moving the rod gently and cradling Albus as he does so, pushing limits and boundaries as only a true revolutionary might; power and care mixed in a cocktail so tantalizing, Albus could climax from that thought alone.  
  
As he gazes, Albus’ blood surges faster and his hand squeezes tighter as it pumps. Somewhere, vaguely in the room, he can hear his own ragged breaths and cries, but that now seems detached; unimportant.  
  
In the mirror, the rod is put aside, and then Albus mewls and spreads his legs widely, opening himself in the most intimate way to Gellert - who strokes and massages his entrance, eliciting little groans and pleas for more. The young Albus is completely in thrall; red eyelashes fluttering closed, arms above his head and wrists crossed in supplication to his very own love – who then slides clever digits within him, stretching and kneading, playing him like a musical instrument; so very, very good... The older Albus cannot conceive of anything more perfect, anything for which he longs more than for this, and his hand is moving in a frenzy; so hard, so desperate, so raw and unfulfilled and hungry and blissful and sad...  
  
He climaxes, just as Gellert pushes his cock into Albus’ supplicant body. The orgasm is intense; he struggles to keep his footing as his vision swims. Then, when the waves have subsided, all is calm and peaceful; the world seems a happy, beautiful place. There is nothing he must do save to watch the figures in the mirror as they fuck slowly and sweetly. Gellert strokes Albus’ face, whispering pledges of love and togetherness, and his heart feels full of bubbles and joy.  
  
His brain clouds with bliss, and his gaze levels, losing even its blink. He could look upon this forever...  
  
  
  


*****

  
  
  
  
There is a knock at the door.  
  
"Albus? Albus!"  
  
He starts, tearing his gaze away from the mirror, and hastily putting the room and himself to rights. "Mmmm, yes. Come in."  
  
"Oh, my Dear, you really do work too hard." Elphias smiles fondly as he bustles in, bearing a tray with a heating charm. "Your dinner's been sitting with me for hours."  
  
"Hours?" Albus is genuinely surprised.  
  
Elphias chuckles. "Yes, hours! But I know what you're like when you start working on something - can't drag you away, now can I?"  
  
Feeling far more chastized than Elphias had intended, Albus shakes his head. "I apologize."  
  
"Tush, no need to apologize to _me._ " Elphias has placed the tray down and moved to Albus' side, pulling him into a chaste kiss and embrace.  
  
Albus yields, burying his nose in Elphias' shoulder, and mumbles, "But I fear there is."  
  
"You silly thing.” He motions to the tray, but Albus shakes his head. “Well, if you're not hungry, why don’t you just come to bed?" Elphias holds out his hand, eyes indicating the direction of the door.  
  
Albus nods and follows him, suddenly feeling very weary, and wondering for all the world why this very sweetest and kindest of men cannot connect with his cramped, old heart


End file.
